At that point the Sansoms faced a dilemma. The vast majority of white students were leaving for a private academy founded quickly in reaction to the news.

Charles Sansom’s boss, one of the school’s primary backers, was pressing him to send his children there, too. Other prominent whites weighed in. They all offered financial aid.

But the family was never really uncertain about what to do.

“My dad still said no because he felt like it was wrong to segregate the schools,” said Sansom’s son, Randy. “I went from going to a classroom that was all white kids to being one of four white fourth-graders in four classes.”

The Sansoms were pressured socially and economically. In time, those pressures forced them back home to Fort Walton Beach. For a few of them, that was a disappointment.

But not for Randy, who chokes up when he recalls the small town and its racist mindset. He “prayed daily that God would remove him from Grove Hill.” He vowed never to go back and has held firm to this day, saying he’ll never forget the life lessons learned there.

“Not that I could ever feel like a minority could feel, but for a short time I did,” said Randy, a certified public accountant in Gulf Breeze. “I don’t want to compare what I went through for nine months with what other minorities go through for a lifetime, but I got a glimpse.”

The color of blood

Through decades of ministry, Charles Sansom often worked two jobs — preaching at country churches and working at furniture stores to feed his family.

In January 1968, he got a job as a manager at Barfield Furniture Store in Grove Hill and moved there with his wife, Joann, and their children: Charles Jr., Debbie, Jerry, Randy and Ray. The patriarch also became the pastor at Dickinson Baptist Church.

It was a tumultuous time in civil rights, but for the Sansom family life was simply lived, and it was colorblind. At the laundromat, Joann looked past the labels of “white” and “colored” and washed her clothes in whichever machine was available. A black woman helped her with the ironing and ate lunch with her at the dining room table, where they became friends.

Ray agrees. “I remember him telling us, ‘If it’s a white person or a colored person, if you cut their finger off they both bleed red,’ ” he said.

But when the schools were desegregated, the community took note of the Sansoms.

“Mr. Barfield was almost requiring my kids to go to Grove Hill Academy,” said Charles Sansom, now 82. “We had Bible study every morning before work. One day, I told Mr. Barfield, ‘Just by God’s grace, you were born in America and not Africa.’ That really upset him.

“He didn’t fire me, but he cut my salary.”

A matter of conviction

Charles Sansom has the benefit of a lifelong faith in God’s plan for him and 40-plus years to soften the edges of those difficult times. But more than that, his children say, he has an unwavering optimism.

He is gentle in his words about the people of Grove Hill at that time.

“A lot of those people were Christians. They just didn’t have the same convictions as us,” he said.

Sansom said he called his former boss in Fort Walton Beach to explain his problem and to ask for a job, which was offered. He moved back alone so his children could finish the school year, and traveled to Grove Hill twice a week to see them and preach at the church that he would soon have to say goodbye to.

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” said Ray, the former state legislator. “It was a very tough time. … I realized I was very proud of my dad for the stance that he took.”

Ray, the youngest, said he and his two older brothers moved to a new elementary school building after desegregation that had been the county’s K-12 school for black students.

His brother Randy was in the fifth grade and a tough kid, but Ray wasn’t so sure as they rode the bus to the other side of town.

He remembers the school kept its black principal, who was very kind to Ray, the only white boy in his classroom.

“He would ask me, ‘Is everything OK? Is there anything I can do? Do you feel welcome?’ ” Ray said. “I remember as a third-grader thinking, he really wants to work this out.”

After school, Ray played with his brothers and his best friend three doors down who had been a classmate since the first grade but now attended the academy. At school, he made new friends. He said he and his classmates had a sense that this was historical, that this was the right thing.

“By the end of the year, skin color didn’t matter,” Ray said. “What I learned in third grade wasn’t math, science and English. It was learning that people you think might be different from you are not that different.”

Just last week Ray returned to Grove Hill, a town he says he appreciates because people really make time for each other. He visited that lifelong friend from first grade. He snapped pictures of the Sansom family home and his school. And he had lunch at a restaurant where people of all races ate together, causing him to remark upon the unremarkable, if only to himself.

“Man that was good,” he said. “I left there saying, ‘It worked.’ ”

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At that point the Sansoms faced a dilemma. The vast majority of white students were leaving for a private academy founded quickly in reaction to the news.

Charles Sansom’s boss, one of the school’s primary backers, was pressing him to send his children there, too. Other prominent whites weighed in. They all offered financial aid.

But the family was never really uncertain about what to do.

“My dad still said no because he felt like it was wrong to segregate the schools,” said Sansom’s son, Randy. “I went from going to a classroom that was all white kids to being one of four white fourth-graders in four classes.”

The Sansoms were pressured socially and economically. In time, those pressures forced them back home to Fort Walton Beach. For a few of them, that was a disappointment.

But not for Randy, who chokes up when he recalls the small town and its racist mindset. He “prayed daily that God would remove him from Grove Hill.” He vowed never to go back and has held firm to this day, saying he’ll never forget the life lessons learned there.

“Not that I could ever feel like a minority could feel, but for a short time I did,” said Randy, a certified public accountant in Gulf Breeze. “I don’t want to compare what I went through for nine months with what other minorities go through for a lifetime, but I got a glimpse.”

The color of blood

Through decades of ministry, Charles Sansom often worked two jobs — preaching at country churches and working at furniture stores to feed his family.

In January 1968, he got a job as a manager at Barfield Furniture Store in Grove Hill and moved there with his wife, Joann, and their children: Charles Jr., Debbie, Jerry, Randy and Ray. The patriarch also became the pastor at Dickinson Baptist Church.

It was a tumultuous time in civil rights, but for the Sansom family life was simply lived, and it was colorblind. At the laundromat, Joann looked past the labels of “white” and “colored” and washed her clothes in whichever machine was available. A black woman helped her with the ironing and ate lunch with her at the dining room table, where they became friends.

Ray agrees. “I remember him telling us, ‘If it’s a white person or a colored person, if you cut their finger off they both bleed red,’ ” he said.

But when the schools were desegregated, the community took note of the Sansoms.

“Mr. Barfield was almost requiring my kids to go to Grove Hill Academy,” said Charles Sansom, now 82. “We had Bible study every morning before work. One day, I told Mr. Barfield, ‘Just by God’s grace, you were born in America and not Africa.’ That really upset him.

“He didn’t fire me, but he cut my salary.”

A matter of conviction

Charles Sansom has the benefit of a lifelong faith in God’s plan for him and 40-plus years to soften the edges of those difficult times. But more than that, his children say, he has an unwavering optimism.

He is gentle in his words about the people of Grove Hill at that time.

“A lot of those people were Christians. They just didn’t have the same convictions as us,” he said.

Sansom said he called his former boss in Fort Walton Beach to explain his problem and to ask for a job, which was offered. He moved back alone so his children could finish the school year, and traveled to Grove Hill twice a week to see them and preach at the church that he would soon have to say goodbye to.

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” said Ray, the former state legislator. “It was a very tough time. … I realized I was very proud of my dad for the stance that he took.”

Ray, the youngest, said he and his two older brothers moved to a new elementary school building after desegregation that had been the county’s K-12 school for black students.

His brother Randy was in the fifth grade and a tough kid, but Ray wasn’t so sure as they rode the bus to the other side of town.

He remembers the school kept its black principal, who was very kind to Ray, the only white boy in his classroom.

“He would ask me, ‘Is everything OK? Is there anything I can do? Do you feel welcome?’ ” Ray said. “I remember as a third-grader thinking, he really wants to work this out.”

After school, Ray played with his brothers and his best friend three doors down who had been a classmate since the first grade but now attended the academy. At school, he made new friends. He said he and his classmates had a sense that this was historical, that this was the right thing.

“By the end of the year, skin color didn’t matter,” Ray said. “What I learned in third grade wasn’t math, science and English. It was learning that people you think might be different from you are not that different.”

Just last week Ray returned to Grove Hill, a town he says he appreciates because people really make time for each other. He visited that lifelong friend from first grade. He snapped pictures of the Sansom family home and his school. And he had lunch at a restaurant where people of all races ate together, causing him to remark upon the unremarkable, if only to himself.